Predator and Prey
by hollow echos
Summary: Tag to the "The Tap Out Job."  Eliot's used to being in control, to being able to fight back against individuals who mean him or his teammate's harm.  The psychological the physical trauma from the fight might be affecting him more than he's leading on.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Predator and Prey  
**Genre: ** Angst, hurt/comfort  
**Total Story Word Count:** ~16,500 words  
**Rating:** PG-13 (language, violence)  
**Pairings:** None (Gen, Eliot/Parker friendship but the whole team's here)  
**Warnings: **None  
**Summary:** Tag to the Leverage episode "The Tap Out Job." Eliot's used to being in control, to being able to fight back against individuals who mean him or his teammate's harm. So what happened in the first few minutes of that fight where he let himself get beat up, for the sake of his team and the success of their con? Add that to the physical trauma from the fight and maybe it's affecting him a lot more than he's leading on.  
**Author's Note:** A thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta phoenix_laugh. This fic is completely written at 16.5k words and will be updated regularly until complete.

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**Predator and Prey**

**"He made me quit. That's the worst thing that can happen, for someone to make you quit. It's a domination that is so total it becomes mental as well as physical."**  
-Sam Sheridan, MMA fighter - "A Fighters Heart"

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There were sharks in the world. Eliot had known this all of his life. It was a necessary part of the status quo for him. There were the sharks, and then there were the seals. The seals, why, they were everyone normal in the world. The moms and dads in their touristy get-ups wandering through the mall in their flip-flops carrying far too many shopping bags. He'd sat at a plastic table outside his favorite little coffee kiosk enough times and watched these people pass to shake his head at them and sigh. They'd chatter on cell phones or amongst one another and ignore the proceedings that surrounded them. As if by ignoring everyone else the danger that rippled beneath the surface of every moment of every day would just dissipate.

These were the people that believed that the security guard with his pepper spray and walkie-talkie and cheap pair of handcuffs could protect them if such an occasion arose. He'd worked among those men in his early days enough to know that they were usually the first to abandon their post at the slightest scent of trouble in the air. The uniform, the gadgets, it was all about creating a façade, an aura of power and control meant to pacify a crowd and provide them with a false security. That façade though, it also painted a target on their backs for any criminal. Take out that rent-a-cop first, rob the everyday people of their security blanket, and well, all of a sudden the room goes silent and everyone is willing to follow the criminal's every order.

Eliot, he trained his whole life to be a real shark. Not one of those rent-a-cops who had fat gathering around their joints instead of lean muscle and thought proper training was knowing how to hit a person with a nightstick when they got combative. No, he'd soaked up every bit of training he could. He'd followed that desire to be a real predator all the way around the world. Military, tiny fighting gyms in Asia and beyond. And that baby fat he'd started with when he first stepped onto that road, it had long ago fallen away in favor of sinuous muscles that lined each one of his limbs. So that he knew if he had to throw a punch to fight for his life he'd have the power behind that strike to deliver it with the strength he needed to incapacitate his enemy and not have to worry about them getting right back up.

He'd worked to climb that hierarchy, elevating himself from another seal in a sea of people to a shark who wandered amongst them. He knew that he could put down almost anyone that came at him. It was why he was never afraid when a thug cornered him coming out of the back entrance of a bar. Sure, his heart raced a bit faster and every sense was magnified times ten as he focused only on the fight before him. But he was never afraid. He'd spent his whole life fighting to earn the tools he needed to protect himself in any scenario that life could throw at him.

So yes, he walked through the mall with his head high and smooth movements. Head on the swivel as he scanned the crowd for any potential threats. But he carried an ease about him, confident in the knowledge that in an ocean of oblivious individuals at any moment he could reach out and put someone down without a second thought. Not that he grabbed the random passerby and put them down for fun. No, his skills were for protection or putting down the people that didn't deserve leniency. A large part of his training had been not only learning the skills necessary to break bones and twist bodies into shapes so as to put the maximum stress on a joint, but also learning the discipline necessary to know when those skills were appropriate to utilize. But he wandered through the world at ease in the knowledge that he was a shark. Not a seal. Not a piece of meat to be preyed upon and left lying in the street, another hapless, witless victim to the predators out to scavenge in the world.

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"**This is a barbaric sport"**

"**Hey, don't lump these guys in with Rutger, alright? He's not what the sport's about."**

"**Eliot, this sport is about two guys beating the crap out of each other."**

"**MMA fighters act with more respect than any other sport I've ever seen."  
"Yeah, they're brave heart, I get it."**

- Conversation between Eliot and Sophie debating the merits of Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) as a sport

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Eliot's breath quickened as he ran a quivering hand back through his hair and tied it in a tight knot at the base of his neck. It was three days ago he'd had that damn fight where he'd allowed another fighter to beat the crap out of him for a spell before throwing off the drugged act and coming back for a knockout. His muscles were still protesting from the night despite the tending he'd done to his body since then. But another con had rolled into action the next day and he'd demanded to be let in on the action despite Nate's assertions that he had had quite enough action for the week and should take some R and R. He wasn't scared, or nervous, just jittery. It was always like this when they asked him to wait. He'd work himself into the mental state necessary to perform his job at peak capacity, and then he'd sit back on his heels and wait for Nate to summon him over the comm from his office miles away and tell him it was his turn to crack some skulls.

Tonight was the first night he'd gotten to do anything for this particular con. The first day or so had been doing reconnaissance on this corporation. It fronted as an operation for some shadier criminal elements to let them move assets across country borders. That meant Hardison and Sophie had been hard at work, Hardison combing the C.E.O.'s electronic records for anything to implicate him, while Sophie worked to cozy in next to the man with her flawless appearance and smooth acting to back her up. Hell, Parker had even got to stretch her muscles a bit. Nate had let her do a dry run on sneaking into and out of the building in preparation for tonight. It seemed their corrupt C.E.O. was a little more paranoid than most and kept most of his records in paper form locked in a safe up on the twenty third floor. And, as Harrison so often liked to complain, give him a computer and he'd make their mark's records sing, but even with all of the hacker skills at his disposal, he couldn't hack a physical document buried in a safe.

Which brought Eliot to the present moment. He was ducked up behind one of the elaborate columns that the building owner had ordered installed in the lobby to make it seem even more imposing. Or to bring a little elegancy to an otherwise drab, standard, office building. Either way, it was perfect cover. He breathed deeply, splitting his attention between watching for any movements around him and listening to Sophie over the comm. She'd snagged the records they needed already and come down from the upper floor pretending to be an associate leaving after an extremely late night.

"Ma'am, can you tell me one more time what sector you work with? I don't recall seeing you prior to tonight."

Eliot listened to the guard mutter skeptically over the comm. Shit. Of course it had to be a smart guard. For every twenty easy ones you got who were wooed by Sophie's alluring looks and smooth adopted accent, you got one who actually ignored all that and did his job.

"Oh, I work with Stellar Communications. Fourth floor. I just started this week. That's what brings me through here so late, got to impress the boss right off the bat, right? Must be why I haven't made your acquaintance yet," Sophie lied.

Eliot listened carefully. And then there was the slightest noise. You had to know it and be looking for it to hear it. But Eliot knew that sound, and thanks to Hardison's intensely sensitive comm units, he heard it. The sound of a snap on a gun holster being popped open had him springing off the wall he'd been leaning up against and silently crossing the distance between his position and the guard's security post.

Sophie's eyes widened when she saw his rapid approach, but she immediately reclaimed her demeanor, smiling at the officer with a breathless, innocent look that suggested pure innocence of any wrongdoing he might be suspecting her of.

And although he couldn't see the man's face from his rear approach, the look on Sophie's face gave him all the answer he needed. A hint of panic was sneaking into her expression, thinly veiled, but still present there none-the-less.

As the man pulled the gun from its holster on his hip and began raising it toward her with one hand as he went for his walkie-talkie with the other, Eliot increased his speed, calling on all of his reserves of energy.

The rest of the world faded away as he quickly closed the distance between himself and the guard. There were only two things in the world at the moment, and that was the gun in the hand of the man before him and the action he needed to take to eliminate that threat.

He raised his hand for a strike and brought it down on the man's shoulder just to the outside of where the neck started. Eliot felt something shift satisfyingly beneath his hand, a bone giving way beneath the staggering pressure of his blow. The man let out a startled, pained gasp. But the strike did its job; the pain radiating out from the pressure point had the man instinctually releasing his grip on the gun. The weapon clattered across the ground.

Keeping one eye on the man, he stepped around in front of the man and kicked the gun across the tile floor in the general direction that Sophie had retreated toward when she anticipated the inevitable confrontation that was about to take place.

The guard staggered back a few steps, eying Eliot with pure fear on his face. Eliot smirked, another seal. He'd take this man down easily. Teach him what working for a corrupt corporation earned him. It earned him a lesson from Eliot in karma. Screw enough people over and someday it'd come back around, like now, delivered with each strike from Eliot's fists. Another strike had the man on the floor, rolling away from Eliot in an attempt to shield his soft, fleshy parts against the onslaught. Eliot delivered one final blow and the man's body went limp as he fell into unconsciousness.

"Eliot! What are you doing here?" Sophie snapped, the bewildered expression on her face fading away to be replaced by one of pure anger.

"Taking out the bad guys. Just like I always do," he snorted back.

"These guys aren't the people we're after. Hell, for all they know nothing is going on here and this is a normal company."

"They're here, aren't they? Making sure the dirty laundry doesn't see the light of day. That makes them guilty enough."

She sighed, walking over and picking up the wallet that had fallen out of the guard's pocket in the struggle. Flipping it over in her hand, she held it up for Eliot to see, "Yes, definitely looks like a two-bit criminal to me. Why, all the criminals I know keep pictures of their two little bright-eyed girls and their dog in their wallets. Want me to strip search him to find the cocaine next?"

Eliot cast his gaze to the floor at that.

But Sophie wasn't finished with him yet, "This man? He's a regular person just like the rest of us. Trying to navigate his way through the world and support his family along the way. What's gotten into you tonight? You've been on edge ever since our last job."

Yeah, ever since his last fight, he thought. He reminded himself that this was how it always was, jittery before a mission, adrenalin-hyped during, and jittery afterwards. Sophie was being paranoid; she was so sensitive to this fighting stuff. He hadn't done any different this time, had he?

She dropped the wallet at Eliot's feet, face up so that he would get a good glance at the family photos, "_That's_ the man you just broke the arm on and probably put out of work for several weeks at least."

It was just another con they'd just finished. Just another con with another bad guy to be taken out. His mind flashed back to a fist connecting to his face sending a shockwave through his skull and down along the spine. A crowd spearing forward in a circle around the ring, jeering, screaming manically as his eyes had darted back and forth. He could've beaten that fighter at any moment, he'd known that the moment he had tested the man's defenses. Instead, he'd restrained himself and allowed fist after fist to pummel his face, his ribs, and his arms. He'd allowed himself to be witless prey for a mediocre predator. Yeah, it had just been another con; he snorted. Only difference was his role had been a seal instead of a shark. But this mission and the ones to come, he'd make up for that. He'd be the weapon that put the bad guys down. He was a shark. He threw one more look at the bloody, unconscious man behind him, snatched the gun off the floor from where he'd discarded it earlier, and jogged out of the building after Sophie.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Predator and Prey**

**Chapter 2**

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"**These guys don't fight because they like hurting other people, alright? They fight to get some sort of control over their opponent, over their environment, over their lives. Have you seen this town? Huh? The farms are drying up. The only shops are bail bondsmen and pawn shops and there's nothing they can do about it. So yeah, they get in the ring and try not to let it all suffocate them."**

_-_Eliot, speaking to Sophie on the true motivation for fighting against a well-matched opponent

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"You sent him home, right?" Sophie asked as she sank into a conference chair across from Nate.

The man nodded, "Yeah. The stuff you pulled out of that safe is enough to at least pique the government's interest in their business practices. We'll need a bit more to get them hooked though."

Sophie folded her hands, "That's great, but I'm talking about Eliot here. He's not here, right?"

"No, I sent everyone else home. You said you wanted to chat in private."

"I appreciate it," Sophie responded. She paused for a second there, deciding where to start, "Has anything seemed off with Eliot since we got back from our last job, or is it just me?"

Nate swirled his drink around a few times, the ice chinking against the glass, before taking a swig as he thought for a moment, "No, not really. Why do you ask?"

Sophie sighed, "He was brutal tonight to that guard that was doing his job and investigating a hunch of his."

Nate shrugged, "He took him down; that's his job. We needed to get you and him out of there before he managed to raise the alarm."

Sophie shook her head, and snapped her fingers, motioning for him to pass her his drink. Nate rolled his eyes but slid it down along the polished table. She caught it and raised it to her own lips. If there was a conversation that called for a drink, this was certainly it. "You're wrong. Normally he's…restrained. Tonight it was like something had just loosened all of his anger and frustration and he channeled it into beating the guard up. He took it far beyond what was necessary to incapacitate the man."

Nate rubbed the back of his head, "You're sure about this? This isn't some small accusation you're making here. You're saying Eliot was deliberately brutal. It just doesn't sound like him."

"I understand the implications of what I'm suggesting, it's not pretty. I know, I watched him break a man's arm tonight."

Nate sighed, "I guess we just keep an eye on him for now. If something's up, we'll see to it. But maybe he just had an off night; the last con was a pretty hard one on Eliot in particular."

Sophie nodded, "Ok, I'll trust you on this. But Nate, what happened tonight cannot happen again."

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**"Pat said he used to walk through a mall and feel like a shark among seals. And that power, in the great fighters, breeds restraint, understanding, and wisdom, even gentleness, except when in the ring."**

-Sam Sheridan, MMA fighter - "A Fighters Heart"

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One day later found the team at a warehouse where some muscle that worked for the company was supposed to be selling some weapons to an international arms dealer. One of the dealer's go-between men was coming to inspect the merchandise tonight. If everything was up to par, the money/weapon exchange would go down tomorrow night.

Tonight was supposed to be pretty low-key. Hardison had come in earlier that day to rig up some audio-visual equipment to film the meeting and pass along to the feds as evidence of the corporation's shadier business. Nate had arranged for Eliot and Parker to be on scene during the meeting to see if they could sneak a weapon away afterwards, before it was shepherded away for safe-keeping. That would be the last nail in the coffin needed to bring this company down. That'd been the goal from the start. Their client's son had been shot in a gang fight that had bled over into a residential area after a car chase. The boy had been playing in his front yard while the dad had been watering the flowers out front. It had taken one stray gunshot to change their client's life. From one of the joys of watching his three year old son learn to ride his first bike to one of lowering his still body into the ground. The weapons utilized by the gang were known to have come from the largest arms dealer in town. And it was common knowledge that the C.E.O. of this company ran the business from the background. But every time the feds tried to bust him, everything was always squeaky clean; they'd never gotten any charges to stick. At least until the father had come to Leverage, Inc. for help.

The meeting proceeded without a hitch. He couldn't see much from his vantage point, but he'd picked the location not to keep an eye on the men, necessarily, but also on Parker. He threw a glance up to where she was perched in the rafters of the warehouse, held up by her rappelling and climbing gear. His teammate didn't notice his gesture, Parker was doing as she always did, focusing one-hundred percent of her attention to her marks.

Eliot smiled and settled back into the shadows to wait until the men left to finish their negotiations elsewhere, leaving the handling of the weapons to some of the extra muscle they had on their payroll.

Eliot waited ten minutes after the last body had filed out of the warehouse, the doors had closed, and there hadn't been a single noise, before slinking from his hiding space along the wall to the bench where a pair of machine guns was laid out on top of the wooden crate they'd arrived in.

"Parker, it's clear," he whispered up toward the ceiling.

There was a slight noise at her rustling about, adjusting ropes, and then quickly descending from the ceiling like a spider from its web, arms and legs spread out to keep her balance as she did so. She reengaged the locking mechanism on the pulley attached to her harness, stopping her descent about two feet from the ground. Parker quickly unclipped herself from the rope and stood up, stretching each limb as she did so, "Took them long enough," she muttered.

Eliot chuckled, "Yeah, well, at least they're gone now. We should take these," he said, raising the machine gun he held a bit, "and get out of here before the muscle arrives to put this stuff away."

He checked the safety on both weapons and then handed one to Parker, "You ok to take one of these?"

She nodded and delicately pulled the weapon from where he held it out for her, "Yeah."

"Hey! What are you guys doing in here?"

Parker and Eliot spun toward the voice to see a bulky man, obviously the hired muscle Eliot had been hoping to avoid. He stood a good head above Eliot and each arm was thicker than two of Eliot's put together.

"Parker, give me some space to take care of this guy," Eliot ordered.

She nodded and withdrew several paces, disappearing into the shadows between two ceiling-high shelving units. Eliot watched for her to fade into the dark before switching his gaze back to the ox of a man charging toward him. He thought about using the gun to solve this, but ruled it out almost immediately. If things went south, as they often seemed to do in situations such as this, gunfire would only bring more enemies to their location.

The man stopped a few steps away and began circling Eliot, "Who sent you, Tony? He gettin' a little jealous now that his clients are realizing we got the better merchandise in town?"

Eliot raised an eyebrow, "Not exactly." He took the free moment to drop into a defensive stance, turning as the other man circled so they remained face to face.

"Well then, whoever sent you isn't so important. More important is me showing you exactly how we treat folks who stick their nose where it don't belong." With that statement, the muscular man bounded forward, meaty fists raised for a frontal assault.

As the man neared, Eliot slipped away at an angle and stuck a foot out to trip the man. As if in slow motion, the thug tumbled forward and hit the ground with enough force to generate a sound that echoed through the warehouse. The man growled as he made a move to raise himself up on his arms, but Eliot stopped the motion there as he took the fight to the ground.

A moment later had them tumbling across the ground, Eliot's legs locked around the man's neck one moment only to have those meaty hands tear his hold loose. The man rolled over on top of Eliot until he was sitting on his chest and wrapped his two hands around Eliot's neck. His hands were more than large enough to complete the distance around Eliot's throat and he slowly began applying pressure.

"Eliot!" a voice called out.

Eliot winced, god, the last thing he needed was for Parker to get involved. With the last bit of air in his lungs he responded, "Stay back," but it came out barely loud enough to be a whisper, far too soft for Parker to hear.

"I see you didn't come alone. Brought a lady friend, did you?" the man jeered as Eliot's vision began spotting.

God. Everything burned. His ribs, still sore from the beating they'd taken in the ring the other day, were sending rippling pain signals through his torso. The man's weight on top of him didn't do much better for him, further restricting the breathing already hindered by the grip around his throat.

The man laughed as Eliot's body bucked and his hands started shaking. He was prey, he was a seal. This shark would tear away the last bit of breath in his lungs and extinguish any chance he had of getting out of here alive.

"Almost there, see, going down isn't so bad. And once you're good and unconscious, I'll go find your lady friend and do the same to her," he turned his gaze to the direction that Parker had cried out from earlier, "Hear that bitch? You're next! You're in way over your head here!"

A blurry kaleidoscope of images was running before Eliot's eyes. The man sitting atop of him, dominance reflecting in his eyes interspersed with images from the fight in Nebraska. Eliot dropping his guard and turning his open torso toward his opponent to receive fist after fist. Explosions of pain radiated from his chest with each blow, blending in with the vice closing around his windpipe in the current moment. His breathing had quickened at first, his body pumping adrenalin through every vein, grasping at any straws for surviving this. It was slowing now, though, as that reserve bottomed out and his oxygen-starved body started to shut down.

"There ya go, buddy. Ain't gonna last much longer," the man sneered, "I gotta say, I was a bit worried at first. But you ain't nothing but another piece of lazy meat, raw for a good pummeling."

Eliot's vision flashed red as he used his last energy reserve to roll sideways, throwing his opponent sprawling across the floor in surprise. Eliot gasped for air, each breath burning and relieving his lungs at the same time. His motions didn't still, though. Even as he was recovering he was striking at the man. A boot to the chest, a fist to the neck. The strikes blurred together as his muscle memory kicked in and delivered a flurry of attacks one after the other.

The man winced a few times, gave a noise akin to a mew once, and then went silent. But Eliot didn't stop. He wasn't a victim, and he certainly wasn't a piece of meat. Let him show this man what a piece of ground meat looked like after a thorough beating. He'd give this jackass that and then some.

"Eliot?"

A voice seemed to pierce the murk surrounding his brain. But it wasn't enough to break his focus. There was just him and his opponent in an improvised ring. And there was punishment to be dealt out to his prey.

A light hand closed around his shoulder, his nerves in that area relaying the signal to his brain. Another opponent. And then it clicked for Eliot, the man had summoned more of them before he'd gone down.

Eliot growled, closing a hand around the wrist of the person behind him and jerking it forward over his own shoulder. He jerked an elbow backward, aiming for the face of this new opponent; it was the quickest and surest way to put him down quickly.

There as a surprised cry and he felt the person behind him go slack and fall backwards. He released the arm he'd been holding and spun to face the new enemy in a defensive stance.

Parker sat on the floor in front of him, hands covering her face.

The murk around his brain dissipated almost immediately, "Fuck, Parker. I thought you were another thug. You ok?"

Both of her eyes were closed and a trickle of blood was leaking between her fingers and running down along her hand, "Ow. That hurt," she muttered in a quiet, level voice.

Eliot checked the man behind him once more, just to make sure he was out. Satisfied, he turned back to his teammate, crouching down next to her, "Shit, Parker. I'm sorry." He reached to peel one of the hands away to survey the injury; he'd delivered that blow to inflict maximum damage thinking it was an opponent.

Parker scooted back a bit, "Uh, I'm ok. How 'bout you stay over there, maybe? You check the guy?"

Eliot ran a hand through his hair, but he backed up a pace. He knew that Parker wasn't fond of physical contact on the best day, and this certainly wasn't their finest night. Last thing he needed was to spook her. "Ok, I can do that. Anything feel broken?"

"I don't think so," she said, although it wasn't a very confident tone, "Got me good in the nose there," she snorted.

Eliot frowned at that. It didn't seem quite the time for her to laugh, and he wasn't really seeing the humor in the situation. But, then, Parker did always find amusement in the oddest things. If it eased her nerves, he'd be glad to let her have her moment. In the meantime, he stood to the side awkwardly for a spell, not sure what to do in this situation other than let Parker get her bearings.

Parker gently pressed on the area around her nose, wincing at a few places. She eventually dropped her hand away and let Eliot get his first look at it. He grimaced, the skin was already turning a mottled mixture of purple and blues and blood still leaked freely from her nose. He patted his pockets, searching for anything to give her for the bleeding, but both hands came up empty.

"Parker, I'm sorry," he said again.

She shook her head, flecks of blood flying in an arc with the motion, "We need to get the guns and go," she said.

Eliot turned back to the table housing the guns. The purpose of this mission had completely escaped his mind the moment he'd realized he'd hit her. As always, Parker was practical and right. "Ok," he said in agreement, "You sure you're ok?"

She shrugged, "We'll decide that later. Right now I can walk and carry one of these guns we need as evidence. That's enough." She scooped one of the guns off the table and started walking toward the door they'd snuck in through.

Eliot shook his head, grabbed the second gun, and followed close after her, watching for any sign of dizziness or other symptoms that would signal that he had injured Parker more than she was leading on.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Predator and Prey**

**Chapter 3**

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**"A big punch does something to a crowd. It connects the crowd and turns it briefly into a single animal, reveling in awe and rejoicing in the physical power."**

-Sam Sheridan, MMA fighter - "A Fighters Heart"

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"Well, shit. Parker, you ok?" Nate inquired through the open window of the get-away vehicle he'd parked in the lot.

She nodded, "Fine. It's ok." She passed her gun to Eliot and slid into the car while he went around back and locked the guns in the trunk.

"Who got a knock in on you?" Nate asked as she shut the door and buckled her seatbelt.

"Oh, it was Eliot," she responded nonchalantly.

Nate's expression froze at that, "It was Eliot," he repeated, as if speaking the words slowly to himself would make them make any more sense. Nope, didn't help.

Eliot slammed the door on his side of the car and opened the first aid kit in his lap, "Look, you drive. I'll take care of Parker until we get back. We need to get out of here."

Nate gave him a skeptical expression; things still weren't making any sense. And this was coming from a guy who was usually three steps ahead. He didn't like it. But Eliot was right, they couldn't loiter around here. Someone would eventually find whatever mess Parker and Eliot had surely left inside. He shook his head, shifted the car into drive, and pulled out onto the street.

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"**I'm losing a fight, not diving on a grenade. I'll be alright."**

-Eliot, speaking to Sophie from the training ring the night before planning to throw a fight

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Eliot hissed as he pressed the ice pack against his aching ribs. The pain from the pummeling he'd voluntarily subjected himself to in that MMA fight had receded a bit since then, but that thug had nailed him a few times in precisely the spots necessary to make sparks fly behind his eyes when he bent in the wrong way or shifted his body too fast.

Nate had brought them back to Hardison's place. Eliot had skated through the kitchen, pausing just long enough to snag a few ice packs out of the freezer and make sure that someone was seeing to Parker before retreating to one of the guest rooms to tend to his own injuries.

He sank down onto the bed, leaning back against a pillow he'd propped against the headboard. God his body was protesting. He wasn't old enough to be feeling this sore. Maybe it was just a compounding of too many missions back to back. Or maybe just the after effect of a particular mission gone awry. Or not really awry, Eliot supposed. He'd volunteered for getting thrashed like that. He'd chosen to not raise his fists in defense for those first key minutes of the fight, a necessary gesture to let Rutger think he had them all beat.

Eliot let his eyelids sneak down over his eyes. But there was none of the black he'd normally see when he'd close his eyes and empty his mind and relax his muscles and allow himself to sleep. No, instead, he saw blinding flashes of lights; too many spotlights aimed his way to highlight all the curvature of every muscle, the light refracting off every bead of sweat that clung to his skin. The thunder of the crowd was muted out behind the heavy breathing of his opponent and the blood pounding in his ears. The man in front of him snarled, baring the white of his teeth as he lunged forward. There was a blur of a fist and then his head was snapping back and knuckles were digging into his right eye and cheek and he was toppling through an empty space.

"Eliot, you ok in there?"

Eliot cracked one eye open, "I'm alright. Just tired. How's Parker?"

Nate sighed and dropped into the leather easy chair that sat near the window. "She's shaken, but ok. Sophie's keeping an eye on her."

Eliot groaned and sat up a little straighter in the bed so he was sitting level with Nate. "She say anything about what happened?"

Nate shook his head, "Nope. Neither have you for the record. What happened in there?"

"The normal stuff. Thugs came after us and I put them down and we got out," Eliot responded.

"And where exactly was the part where you hit Parker?"

Eliot stiffened at that. He got it. He messed up. He'd let his mind drift while he was in the middle of a fight and Parker had paid the price. He didn't really know what to say to justify that. He'd fucked up. The whole car ride back he'd alternated between apologizing and tending to Parker and replaying the incident through his mind looking for the moment where he'd let his focus slip. He _never _let his focus slip, and he certainly never was so off base as to attack a teammate. Until today at least. "It was a mistake. It was messy in there and she snuck up on me trying to help and I thought it was another one of them."

Nate massaged his temples. God, what a headache this night was turning out to be. "And you didn't think to call in for back-up if it was getting that rough?"

"In case you didn't notice, we weren't really too chatty during the mission. There was some sort of disruption in the connection. We were on our own, might be a good idea to have Hardison look at it while we have some downtime."

"So, let's talk about this hairy situation you found yourself in. It was messy, got that much. Now what made you abandon your normal precision and go all sloppy?"

Eliot snarled. "Didn't I just say it was chaotic in there? I was trying to _protect _Parker and myself against those thugs."

Nate sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "And in the process somehow your fist ended up colliding with her face?"

"Yes, Nate. I made a mistake. A very big mistake. And Parker suffered for it. You think I'm not beating myself up for it already without needing you to come in here and reiterate the fact?"

Nate raised an eyebrow and allowed the man to simmer for a moment. "I know it wasn't purposeful. But it doesn't change the fact, it happened. And for you to go from one-hundred percent on task to being off-target enough to hit Parker, well, something had to have happened in the in between space there. I need to know what."

"It happens to people, Nate. I made a mistake-"

Nate cut him off there, "Yes. And that's the problem. In our line of work, mistakes _can't _happen. One mistake is the difference between getting caught and getting away clean. And I know this sounds dramatic, but with the criminals we pull cons on it's the truth, sometimes it means getting away with your life or lying in a ditch along the side of the road. And when one of you guys, anyone on this team, is having an off spell, it becomes my business. When one of us is off, our whole team is off, and we cannot go into a con like that. It's sloppy and stupid."

Eliot turned his gaze to the window, "I said I'm fine. It won't happen again."

Nate shook his head. "You're right on that. Until you have this sorted out, you're off duty."

"You don't have the right to do that! You need someone out there to take care of Hardison and Parker and Sophie. To do the heavy hitting," he argued back.

Nate sighed. "Even ignoring whatever other issues are floating around in the background and occupying your thoughts, you ain't exactly in a position to be doing that kind of work anyways," he said, nodding to the ice pack that Eliot had resting against his ribs.

Eliot looked down at it himself and pulled his shirt down over it, "It's sore. You would think a guy would be entitled to that much after the throttling you had me take during our last con."

Nate stood up and walked over to the bed to get a closer look at the area, "I had it lined up for that ring doc to take a look at you after the fight. He said you really should get a proper looking at a hospital. You said no."

"I didn't need it. I know my body and how it responds after a fight. And I certainly know when I'm fine."

"Yeah, just like you don't need some time off now, right?"

"Exactly," Eliot said smugly.

"Well my common sense is saying otherwise," Nate added as he looked at the web of bruising radiating out from where his teammate had an icepack settled. He snagged one of the extra ice packs that Eliot had set on the night stand and dropped it into his teammate's lap. "Get one of these on your eye while you're at it. You look like a raccoon, minus the cute and cuddly."

Eliot grumbled something under his breath but begrudgingly picked up the ice pack and held it up to the side of his face. He spoke a bit more quietly this time. "Is Parker ok?"

Nate shrugged, "The sheets on Hardison's bed are a lost cause, she had a good and bloody nose there, but she's being her normal tough self."

"You sure? I cracked her pretty hard back there…"

"Sophie's in with her right now. She'll probably in for the same as you, a little R and R, a night cuddled up with an ice pack and she'll be good to go tomorrow."

"I'll be good to go tomorrow too," Eliot added.

Nate shook his head, "No, you won't. There's something else going on here. Something you aren't being up front about. And that's ignoring the two beatings you've taken this week alone. Your job is to stay here and sleep and think about cluing us in on what's really going on." With that said, he started retreating toward the door to go check on the rest of his team.

Eliot knew when Nate wasn't going to budge. Or maybe it was just that sleep sounded somewhat reasonable at the moment, and this argument could continue tomorrow when he actually had the energy to match Nate on level footing, "You'll tell Parker I'm sorry?"

Nate nodded, "She already knows, but I'll tell her again."

"Thanks," Eliot finished as he sunk back down into the bed with a wince. Nate nodded once more and withdrew, shutting the door quietly behind him.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Predator and Prey**

**Chapter 4**

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**"We want to know ourselves under stress, in pain and in adversity-we want to know if we are game."**  
-Sam Sheridan, MMA fighter - "A Fighters Heart"

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Eliot limped out into the main room the next morning. He'd thought about going home. Hardison's guest bed wasn't on par with his own. The springs on the thing alone made him want to find the manufacturer of that torture device and express his displeasure at his night sentenced to the thing. It hadn't seemed to matter which way he turned or twisted or what strange position he tried sleeping in. Lying on his back made the bruises on his back all the more apparent. Sleeping on his side had the hip that had landed on the cement during the fight groaning. Eventually he'd resigned himself to the fact that he'd be switching from one uncomfortable position to the next without reprieve. He'd thought about driving himself home, but Nate had picked him up and the man was far too protective of his car. Not to mention that the last thing he'd wanted was the pitying gazes of his teammates staring in his direction. Or the unease at the notion that he'd hit one of his own teammates. Accidental or not, it wasn't excusable, and it was certainly going to be at the forefront of everyone's minds for awhile.

He managed to successfully navigate the spiral staircase down from the loft where he'd stayed. It was surprisingly quiet. He threw a quick glance at the clock that hung on the wall flanking the outlook over the city. It was past noon. He must really have been tired to sleep in that late. He'd already missed his normal morning run.

And from the looks of it, he'd missed the team as well. No one was in the living room. Where'd he leave his phone last night? Might as well call everyone to see what was on the agenda for the con today. Eliot replayed the stumbling path he'd navigated from the front door to the loft as he'd come into the apartment. He'd only stopped in the kitchen long enough to grab some ice and a glass of water before retreating to the loft post haste, ignoring the confused expressions of his teammates on the way to the staircase.

Kitchen it was, then. The phone hadn't been in the guest room. As he padded through the living room and onto the tiled floor that lined the floor in the hallway leading toward the kitchen, he cocked his head a bit. There was the sound of voices. Were they still here?

He scanned the room as soon as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. The TV was on, that explained the racket. Parker met his gaze, "Well, you're finally up. It's about time!"

Eliot was silent for a moment while he took in her appearance. She was wearing a loose pair of grey sweats and a t-shirt and seemed to have taken up a comfortable residence in the kitchen. A box of cheerios was resting on its side on the counter, cereal spilling out of the box in a small pile that she appeared to have been munching out of. She was perched at the counter on one of the bar stools facing the TV mounted on the wall. One side of her face was bruised, her eye appearing as a slit between puffy, swollen muscle.

"How's your face today?" he asked as he walked further into the kitchen. He stopped on the other side of the counter and stood facing her.

"You're blocking the TV!" she complained, motioning for him to scoot to the side with her hand. "They're about to rob the bank, it's my favorite part of the movie."

He smirked, classic Parker. But that didn't mean he would let her dismiss the question. "Alright, alright, I'm movin.' Hold your horses," he added as he moved over a few steps sideways so that he was standing out of her way.

"Thanks," she responded in turn.

"You feeling sore today?" he asked, trying again.

She shrugged, "Had worse. Nate gave me the day off even though I told him I could help with the con. He gave me food, threw me the remote, and left with Sophie and Hardison to do whatever it is he does that allows our cons to go off so well."

Eliot nodded. "He gave me the same treatment last night. Your face looks pretty bad; you should be icing it if you're just sitting here. It'll keep the swelling down."

She raised an eyebrow and shot him an annoyed look. "It's cold."

"That's the point…"

"The cold makes it uncomfortable."

"More uncomfortable than a throbbing, swollen face?"

She nodded, "Cold and I don't get along. I'll take the swelling. Besides, it'd just distract me from the movie."

He shook his head; some things were just better left as they were with Parker. She always did have her own unique way of viewing things. He pulled out one of the wooden stools on his side of the bar and plopped down on it.

Things went pretty slow for a few minutes, Parker returned to her movie, interspersing her passive TV watching with munching on dry cheerios. When Eliot's patience had expired he snagged the remote off the counter and turned the TV off. As the screen went black Parker shot him a nasty look. "Hey! What was that for?"

"I'd like to talk about what happened last night, just for a minute or two maybe and then you can go back to your movie," he explained.

She glared at him. "What's there to say? We went in, stole some stuff, and got away. And a bad man'll be going to jail for arms dealings. It was a good night. And now it's the day after, a day off, and you're interrupting that."

"And I hit you, Parker. And again, I'm really, really sorry for that. It shouldn't have happened. But it did and we can't just ignore that," Eliot said in a carefully level tone as he kept his eyes fixed on her bruised face.

She noticed his transfixion and reached for the area, pressing against it gently. "I got hit, but I wasn't hurt bad. And we got what we needed. That's what matters."

Eliot took a deep breath, he needed to stay calm. He'd already made this difficult enough after last night. "It matters, Parker. I _hit _you, one of my teammates. We need to have this discussion now so we aren't second guessing one another when we go out in the field in the future. You don't just walk away from getting hit by someone you're supposed to trust and be all fine about it."

Parker raised an eyebrow. "What did you expect from me out of this? That's what you do isn't it? You get hit; you get back up and keep going. What's to say I'd do differently?"

He shook his head and bit his lip before responding. "But you're not me. I'm used to getting beat up and dealing it out in turn. That's my role in this operation we run, that's my job for the team. To take the brunt of any assault and make sure that it doesn't get to you guys. Damn it, I'm supposed to protect you guys, not beat you up myself."

"You made a mistake. I almost dropped Hardison off a roof the one time he went rappelling off the side of the building. The rope almost got away from me."

Eliot gave her a questioning look. "Don't think I heard about that one…"

She shrugged, "You didn't. I made a mistake, no one got hurt and we got the job done. What's the rationale for dwelling on something like that? We move on."

Eliot thought back to his night in the ring, an opponent standing over him. God, what he would give for Parker's ability to forgive and forget and just move on. "You're telling me that this doesn't bother you one bit? That you aren't worried that I might hit you again?"

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"No."

"Do you plan on doing it again?"

"Well of course not!"

"Then what's the issue?"

"I shouldn't have hit you, that's the problem," Eliot snapped back, more angry at himself than at Parker's valid questions. "I should've had the self-discipline to be paying attention and avoiding stuff like that."

She popped a few more cheerios in her mouth and cocked her head a bit, "What made this time any different? Why _didn't _you have your normal self-restraint?"

He didn't speak for a moment. Parker stared right back at him; the sound of her munching on cheerios was the only sound in the otherwise silent kitchen. Eventually he shook his head, "I just have stuff going on, ok? I've been a bit preoccupied."

She shrugged. "Good enough for me. If you don't want to talk about it, fine. You are the one who came in all chatty. Conversation's over now, right? Can I have the remote back?" Parker asked, stretching her hand out across the counter for it.

Eliot pulled it back, out of her grasp. "It really doesn't bother you? At all?"

She gave him a skeptical expression. One that expressed her annoyance at this conversation. Parker preferred to leave the touchy-feely conversations to the other ones. Sophie had already cornered her the previous night wanting to talk about her "feelings" and this incident. Mistakes were just that, mistakes. One instance wasn't going to make her lose faith in the man that had saved her life on more than one occasion. One mistake wasn't going to make her ignore all the times he had taken a punch meant for _her. _Why didn't he get that she was willing to take an accidental blow from him and move on with things. "No, Eliot. I'm fine with things, really. We're ok."

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on a few tangled bits from a night spent tossing and turning in a bed that wasn't his. "It's just this last mission…"

"The one we're working right now?"

"No, the _last _one. The guy rigging fights in Nebraska."

"What about it?" she asked.

"I don't know how to explain it," he responded, trying to gather his thoughts into coherent sentences.

"I thought you like fights. Isn't that what you are always bragging about?"

"Well, yeah. It's what I'm good at."

"Then what problem did you have with your part in the mission? You got in the ring, did your thing, and we got our mark."

"I'm used to being the one doing the beating up, not the one taking a hammering," Eliot continued as if he hadn't even heard Parker's statement. He was a bit wrapped up in his own thoughts at the moment

She raised an eyebrow and leaned forward a bit, resting her chin on her arm that was propped on the countertop, "You knocked the other guy out. Doesn't that count as a victory? Or did Hardison lie to me about the rules? He's always messing with me."

He shook his head, "No, that's how it works. Hardison wasn't jerking your chain this time. It was that first bit where I had to let the other fighter knock me around. I'm not used to being defenseless like that. My job was to just stand there and act drugged and let him pummel me like a punching bag."

"Didn't you volunteer for that, though? Nate didn't make you do that. It was your idea to do that when we found the drugged water."

He shrugged, "I did my job. I got hit, I did some hitting. No one else was going to get up there and do it and I wasn't about to let that Rutger get away with drugging our client's son and ruining his fighting career. It ain't right."

"But it's ok that you had to do something that unsettled you this much?" Parker asked him.

"There was no other way-"

"Nate would've come up with something if you'd told him. That's _his _job just as much as the fighting bit is yours."

"Each one of us has a job. No one else complains. What right do I have to refuse doing something when I'm the only one that can accomplish it? It'd cripple our team right out of the gate."

"Seems to me that you need to speak your mind. We may be good at a lot of things, but mind reading isn't one of them. You need to tell people when things bother you."

Just then the door opened and Hardison's laugh floated down the hallway and into the room. That was quickly followed by a cacophony of other sounds: voices, footsteps, items being dropped to the ground. The swell of noise moved forward with their teammates' approach as they came toward the kitchen.

Eliot's eyes darted from the doorway to the Parker and back. The response he'd been about to give died on his lips as he closed his mouth, going mute as the team entered the room. He slid the remote back across the counter to Parker, snagged her discarded ice pack for himself, and retreated toward the loft.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Predator and Prey**

**Chapter 5**

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Eliot woke up this time to the sound of a sharp knock on the door. He growled and buried his head back under his pillow. He'd stuck around at HQ for a few more hours before calling a cab to take him home. Dinner had come in the form of cheap Chinese take-out. His cooking skills had wept at the quality of the food, but he was pretty confident it wasn't going to give him salmonella poisoning or some other equally terrible ailment. He'd passed out on the couch after that, not quite mustering up the energy to limp back to his room. But the few hours of real sleep he had snagged evidently hadn't been enough. His limbs felt like lead and all he wanted to do was go back to bed.

"Eliot! I know you're in there. Come on, up and at 'em sunshine! Open the door."

Apparently his teammates had a different definition of what having day off meant. Usually it meant being left alone to rest. "Extra key's above the door, let yourself in and stop the yelling!" As the person outside fumbled with the door and the lock, Eliot swung himself up into a sitting position and scrubbed the blurriness from his vision.

The door opened and his teammate walked in. "Pack your bags, we're going out of town," Nate said.

Eliot shot him a puzzled expression. "We just finished a job, where you got us going off to now?"

Nate smirked. It was that superior smirk he gave them when he knew something they didn't and was purposefully leaving them in the dark, "You'll find out on the way. Now, come on, pack. I got our plane on the runway in twenty minutes and we need to be on it."

"It look like I'm ready to go gallivanting across the country?"

Nate shrugged, "Hey, I was gonna give you a week off to keep it low key, rest up maybe. You're the one who wanted back in right away. Stay here and nurse that bruised ego of yours if you want, or throw together an overnight bag and meet us in the car downstairs."

Eliot grumbled something under his breath, setting aside the mostly melted ice pack he'd had resting on his ribs and standing up. He shot one more gaze over at Nate, "How come I'm the last to hear about this?"

Nate smirked, pointing to the discarded cell phone that was just barely poking out from under the couch, "Because the rest of the team seems capable of keeping in touch, unlike a certain other person I know." With that said, he retreated toward the door, pausing to throw one final glance over his shoulder to see Eliot moving about, gather some of his more essential possessions for a trip like this. With a nod of approval, Nate quietly shut the door behind him.

Eliot ignored Nate's departure, instead busying himself with packing hurriedly. Into one of his duffle bags he threw the items he always took a mission: two changes of black recon outfits, a pair of jeans and a shirt, two hand guns, the assortment of knives he always carried while working, and a book for the rare bits of down time he found on a mission. After running through his list mentally one more time, he zipped the bag shut, locked the door behind him, and shuffled toward the elevator. Normally he'd harp on Hardison for taking the elevator instead of the stairs; the man spent far too much time behind a computer to be in shape. And his teammate really should be in better shape considering the number of unfriendlies they had chasing after them far too often. But his ribs protested simple walking and him clumsily plodding down the stairs in his current battered state wasn't going to make them any happier. So he pressed the button for the first floor and rode the elevator down in silence.

The time that followed was somewhat of a blur. There was a car ride to the airport squeezed in the back seat between Parker and Hardison, a quick walk across the airport tarmac before boarding the plane. Somewhere between the taxiing to the runway and taking off he'd apparently drifted off, because the next thing he was aware of was Parker standing directly over him, invading his personal space as usual.

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

"Nate said for me to tell you to get your lazy butt up and moving, we're landing."

Eliot rolled his eyes and grumbled, Parker withdrew enough to let him sit up properly and he pawed around the floor until his hand settled on his duffle bag. He drew it up into his lap and took the time to look out the window. The scene was hauntingly familiar: an airport so small that they only needed two gates for planes to pull up to. The tarmac below was cracked every few feet and edged with browning grass.

"We been here before, haven't we?" His brow scrunched as they passed a familiar sign that said "Welcome to Nebraska!" in an annoyingly bright red lettering. "Why are we back in Lincoln, Nebraska?"

"We got a job to do," Nate responded as he pulled his bag out of the overhead.

Eliot frowned at the lack of further information. He would swear that Nate lived for the opportunity to keep them all in the dark about anything and everything. He kept his cards close to his chest until he was ready to make the big reveal. In the meantime, Eliot and the rest of them had to settle for following Nate wherever he led them and hoping he wasn't leading them into something they couldn't handle.

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**"But in the corrida, the matador is not exposed to physical and emotional damage by duty or conscription-he is a volunteer, a true believer, a lover with his love. And there are no limits to love, it is quite merciless."**  
-Sam Sheridan, MMA fighter - "A Fighters Heart"

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Eliot looked out the window as they pulled up to the gym that had been so ingrained in his memory as of late. Or rather, the events that had transpired under the roof of this building. The events that included him passively allowing another man to dominate over him while he stood there as a victim. He'd lain on the mat beneath this roof. Bled on the floor.

Nate killed the engine after parallel parking out front. Pulling the keys out of the ignition he turned around and faced the back seat. "Well, we're here. Everyone pile out and get inside before the heat out here melts one of us. Air conditioning sounds like a god send right about now."

Eliot popped the door and climbed out into the humid Nebraska night. The sun bled red on the horizon, painting the buildings a dull shade of burgundy. He breathed deeply of the clear air and started rolling up the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt. As the others scuttled toward the promised air conditioning he lingered back for a moment, walking at a slow, easy pace. The lifestyle he'd adopted since joining the team, the places they lived, they weren't home.

Back home were nights like these. Best sunsets he'd ever laid eyes on, flat country in every direction for miles, and a comfortable heat that sank into your bones during the day and really made you appreciate the comforts of a cool evening.

"Yo Eliot, you coming?" Hardison asked from where he was standing holding the door open for him.

"Yeah, just thinkin,'" Eliot responded as thoughts of home fled from his mind and he followed Hardison inside.

Mark was standing in the ring, leaning up against the ropes. His bad arm was still in a sling, but their client's son looked markedly improved since their last visit here. Eliot shot him a quick nod, "How's the gym going so far?"

Mark shrugged, "Fine so far. All the guys seem ok with the change in management. All of our fighters have stayed on save a few who liked it when Rutger would fix fights for them. Not that I regret their leaving, it says something when a man relies on fixed fights to win. Says he's either lazy and doesn't train, or he doesn't have the skills you need to win a level fight in the ring."

Eliot plopped down on one of the benches assembled a few yards away from the ring beside his teammates. Well, most of his teammates. He chuckled at Sophie. She stood to the side and was looking around the place with a disgusted expression. Probably afraid of touching any of the surfaces in here that many men had left their sweat and blood on.

"So what brings us back this way? Someone else givin' you grief now?" Eliot asked Mark.

Mark shook his head, "Nope, Nate asked me here tonight. Least I could do after all you guys did for me."

Eliot moved his questioning gaze over to Nate. The man took the hint and started speaking before Eliot had to prompt him for information again. "Look, we've all noticed that you've been a little off since we took down Rutger. We just want to help."

"There's nothing that needs helping. I told you I was fine," Eliot growled back.

Sophie spoke then, "You've been much more violent lately, Eliot. Less restrained. You hit Parker for God's sake."

Nate stepped up. "I don't know the specifics, Parker mentioned that the fight that went down here was bugging you-"

Eliot shot Parker an angry glare. "And what's this, then? An intervention. We all going to go around the circle and share our inner most feelings? I don't do that crap. Not ever, and certainly not here and now."

Nate continued on as if Eliot hadn't interrupted him. "We know you well enough by now to know that's not your style. You fight. You fight to prove you can, to prove that you are the best there is. And we asked you to abandon that principle of yours, albeit temporarily. All I'm offering you is a straight fight to make up for it."

Eliot crossed his arm skeptically. "And just who am I supposed to be fighting?"

Nate responded quickly, "Tank. Same as last time, this time no games going on behind the scene. Just a straight fight, one man against another on fair footing."

Eliot tossed the idea around in his mind for a few seconds but ultimately, maybe it would be beneficial. How many nights had he replayed the fight in his mind, from the time he stood there as a punching bag to the moment where he finally took the other man down? Yes, ultimately he'd won that fight , but it didn't make up for the slugs he'd taken to his ribs and his face or the choke hold he'd submitted to. There were so many hidden agendas in that fight. Nate and his team wanting to take Rutger down; Rutger wanting to make some quick cash on a rigged fight. And somewhere lost in that tumultuous web of deceit had been buried his one true passion, the fight. They were right, he needed this. A clean fight, one untarnished by hidden wars, one where he knew that the person standing over the body of the other was truly the better fighter. "Ok. Let's do this. Where is Tank?"

"In the locker room," Mark said.

Eliot nodded and began stripping off his shirt for the fight.

"Whoa, whoa. Slow it down there, Eliot," Nate said, "We're going to discuss terms first."

Eliot looked at him with an annoyed expression, impatient as always. It was always planning with Nate. Ironing out every single detail. Sometimes he wished the man would just go all in, all at once. Let Eliot jump in the ring and just go at it. His ability to win or lose this fight wouldn't be changed in five minutes of deliberation. "What terms would you like to discuss?"

"Mark will ref this match. You get checked out by his cousin, Jon, before the fight to make sure you're well enough recovered from your last bout to get back in the ring. And you get checked out again afterwards. And you will _not _argue, reject, or debate any recommendations he makes after the fight to ensure your health."

Eliot rolled his eyes, "That guy's way to conservative. An MRI after a simple fight? I said I was fine and I was, wasn't I?"

"That would be debatable, darling," Sophie added smoothly, referencing his irregular behavior.

"Let's cut the bickering before we start, children," Nate cut in. He turned to Eliot then, "Those are the terms, non-negotiable. Take them as they stand or reject them, we get on a plane, and fly home right now."

Eliot nodded, "Fine. We'll do this your way. Let's get started then."

-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-


	6. Chapter 6

**Predator and Prey**

**Chapter 6**

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**"Bullfight critics, ranked in rows,  
Crowd the enormous plaza full,  
But only one is there who knows,  
And he's the one that fights the bull."**  
-Anonymous poem

-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-

Eliot stood in his corner of the ring. Eyes closed for the moment, he took deep breaths. Other fighters, they each had their own pre-fight routines. Some liked to play up the drama, rile the fans. Some liked to stretch one more time to ensure that each muscle was ready for the fight. But Eliot, he had his own curious routine. It wasn't theatrical, it wasn't noisy or flashy. It was the exact opposite, in fact. He leaned back against the ropes, felt the heat of the lights above him, the thrum of the fans around him. He wrapped all of that commotion into a tight little ball and banished it to the furthest corner of his mind. The moments before the fight were dedicated to mediation. To relaxing every fiber of his being and playing out the fight in his mind so that when his eyes finally snapped open, when he took his position across from the other fighter and nothing stood between them but a ref's arm, he was ready for that serenity to fall away. He was ready to fight.

Granted, it was a bit different this time. Gone were the fans that normally threatened to drown out his thoughts. Gone was the pressure of delivering for his promoter or the people betting on him. This fight was for _him. _It was for him to prove to himself that he wasn't prey for another fighter to kick and choke and trod upon. He was a predator in his own right.

It was a tap to his shoulder that drew him back out of his own thoughts and into the world again.

He turned to look at the person who'd stirred him.

Parker gazed back at him. "The other guy's lining up. Thought you might want to know," she said, shrugging.

Eliot directed his gaze to where Parker was looking to see the man he'd fight tonight. The man had a name to match his appearance. Tank, the man was certainly built like one. Each limb was thick as a tree trunk; his bald head reflected the light from the lamps. Eliot flashed back to a time when he'd worn military fatigues and a helmet on a daily basis. He'd jogged after a tank or two in his time and the feeling was hauntingly familiar. Jogging through the desert, sweat gluing his shirt to his back, the steel exterior of the tank catching the sun at just the right angle as it began to dip behind the mountains off on the horizon.

"You ready?" Parker whispered softly, "You know we're not putting you up to this, right? We can still go home."

Eliot turned his gaze back to her, the black bruising around her eye contrasting with her pale complexion. He'd become sloppy since the first fight. He'd made mistakes he shouldn't have made. And Nate was right, every time they went into a con and he was off-kilter, the whole team was off. He'd already proved that once. He'd hit Parker as if she were a common thug. He shook his head, Parker was wrong. There was no walking away from this; there was no option to retreat. To crawl back into that plane and limp home was to permanently cripple his team and endanger them. "No, I'm good. I'm ready. Let's do this."

She nodded and pulled back from the edge of the ring a pace, giving him the room he needed to stand and make his way over to where Mark was standing in the center of the ring.

"Eliot, you ready?"

"Sure as hell I am."

"Tank, you ready?"

"Let's get this started."

"Alright then," Mark added as he backed up two paces to the edge of the ring, "Fight!"

Eliot slunk to one side of the ring, balanced on the balls of his feet as he advanced forward a few feet. Tank remained rooted in place. Eliot held one arm up defensively in front of his turned torso. With the other gloved hand he threw a few experimental jabs. Testing the waters. Tank responded in turn, blocking each blow and throwing one of his own.

Eliot parried the blow and skated backward a few steps, backing up just enough to miss the kick his opponent had aimed for just below his knee.

The match continued on in much the same manner for the next minute or so. Each was trying to get a feel for the other. Looking for an opening, a weakness. Something to provide an opening past the defense where a fist might meet chest or face, might do some damage and move one of them that much closer to a victory.

As the fight progressed, though, something began to feel off to Eliot. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He jabbed, fully expecting a return parry and strike. But luck was on his side, his fist connected with Tank's upper chest on the right side. The man stumbled and grunted but quickly regained his composure. The only evidence that showed that Eliot had done any damage was that the man was breathing a bit heavily, a piece of drool hung off the edge of Tank's lip.

Tank threw a sloppy blow which Eliot didn't even attempt to block. He simply danced around it and circled around Tank to the side. The man made a clumsy pivot and raised both arms in a defensive posture.

Eliot bounced his weight from foot to foot. Needed to keep limber. And then he moved in for another attack, this time throwing a kick-punch combo. Tank blocked the kick but then his movements slowed. Something was….strange. For a moment he thought he'd seen doubt or uncertainty in Tank's eyes. But that thought faded as Eliot's fist connected with the same spot on his opponent's torso as before.

Tank grimaced and folded forward. Eliot took the opportunity to trip him and take him to the ground. They tussled for a moment, rolling over one another as they struggled to be on top. Eliot eventually got his arm wrapped around Tank's throat and he began to tighten his grip. Tank's breaths became shorter, his struggling became more intense. But Eliot didn't relent. Keeping half of his attention on Tank's thrashing, he replayed the previous sequence in his brain, trying to put a name to what seemed to be funny about this fight.

Tank was fighting differently than last time. Last time the man had been all out offensive, leveling punch after punch in a relentless cycle. But this time, it was slower. Tank was putting up a front, he'd thrown a few jabs, blocked a few. But it was jerky. Like the man was calculating as he fought. Eliot replayed the previous sequence in his brain. And then, there! It was the blow that had allowed Eliot the opening to bring him down. Tank had turned his torso forward, baring it open for Eliot. A fighter, even a novice one, knew to stay twisted at an angle to minimize the target area available to an opponent. And yet Tank had twisted to expose that part of him. Eliot had seen it in his eyes too, Tank had done that fully knowing it went against everything he'd been taught.

Eliot growled and released his grip on Tank's throat. The man panted and rolled away.

"Time out!"

Mark stepped in between the two of them. "What's up, Eliot? Something wrong?"

"Sure as hell it is," he snarled. But the statement wasn't directed at Mark. No, Eliot's glare was aimed at Nate.

"This fight is just as dirty as the last one I fought here. You rigged the fight, didn't you Nate?"

Nate kept a neutral expression as he responded. "This match is clean. I don't know what paranoia's plaguing you now."

"Tank here isn't fighting like I know he can. If I had to put a name to it, I'd say he was taking it easy on me. And the _only _reason any fighter does that in the ring is if someone's paid them off."

He looked down at Tank this time. The man had recovered a bit. He was still gasping for air but he was slowly rising to his feet, aided by a firm grip on the ropes at the side of the ring.

Eliot addressed his opponent this time. "What's he paying you?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," the man responded automatically.

Eliot walked to the edge of the ring and started slipping between the ropes to exit.

"Where're ya going?" Nate asked.

"Well, seems to me I came here for a clean fight. But seein' as I ain't gonna get that, we may as well be going home," Eliot said.

Nate sighed, "Fine. Fine. Hold up. Yeah, ok. I rigged the fight. But I didn't think it would hurt. You just needed your confidence back. Who cares if I was just making sure that you found what you needed to accomplish that?"

Eliot glared, "I care. If I'm going to win anything in that ring, if I'm going to find closure or whatever, it's gonna be done on level ground. In a _fair _fight. You don't think I've done enough dirty fighting under this roof?"

"Fine," Nate relented, "We'll give you a clean fight."

This caught Tank's attention. "That mean I'm not getting paid here tonight? If that's the case, I'm out."

Eliot responded, "Oh, Nate'll still pay you whatever he promised. Plus he'll be doubling that fee since we're switching the conditions on the fly-"

"Eliot! You don't have a right to promise anyone any of my money!" Nate said as he cut Eliot off.

"Just the same way you got no right meddling with the outcome of my fights?" Eliot shot back.

Nate shook his head, "Fine."

"Sounds like we're all squared away then," Eliot finished, "Now can we get back to the fight?"

There was a murmur of agreements from the people in the warehouse as Eliot and Tank went to square up again. And just like that, they were off again in a flurry of strikes and blocks that blurred their movements together.

And Eliot couldn't help but feel his spirits lift as the match went on. It was fighting in its purest form. Two evenly matched men in a ring. Predators dancing around one another looking for a fatal mistake to seal their opponent's fate. Everything else slid away like water off a well-sealed roof. The baggage he'd been carrying, the filth that had come to stain his favorite sport was carried away and replaced with the sting of a cinderblock-strength strike hitting his bruised ribs. He responded with a hiss and a kick of his own. The smack of sweaty fist against unyielding muscle. This was fighting.

Fighting wasn't money being exchanged between hands. It wasn't trainers fixing a fight one way or another or drugging an opponent to ensure a victory.

A foot swiped low against his ankle, throwing him off balance. Next thing he felt was his head smacking against the floor, a figure climbing upon his own and pressing down with all its weight. Eliot went to roll over and use the momentum to trade position with his opponent. He was met in turn with an elbow to the face.

He vision spotted red, then black. Then back to white as he stared up at the blinding lights. Tank was going for the choke hold. Eliot barely recovered enough to get his hands between Tank's arm and his own throat. It was all that prevented his opponent from closing off his air source and choking him out.

With a grunt he applied all of his strength against countering the onslaught. He got a foot under him and managed to roll to the side, throwing Tank off him as the man rolled across the floor like dead weight.

Eliot was on him, punching him again and again and again. Blood flew from Tank's nose, spotting the otherwise white mat.

"Ok…"

Eliot paused, his fist just an inch from Tank's face.

"Ok, I'm out. That's match," Tank said as he tapped out with a shaky hand. "I'm done."

Eliot sat there for a moment. The adrenalin pumping through his body was screaming for action, for a release. It took every ounce of his self-restraint to silent the urge and move from pure action to complete standstill. He rolled off his opponent and retreated to his corner. Mark knelt down next to Tank to make sure he was ok.

Eliot sank down on his stool, leaning back against the ropes. Someone shoved the nozzle of a water bottle into his mouth and he gulped greedily.

"You ok, Eliot?" Nate asked.

"Yeah. I'm good."

A hand pressed against the lump that was forming on the back of his head from where he'd hit the mat earlier. Eliot hissed at the pain that announced itself.

Parker settled a hand on his shoulder, "Easy, Eliot. Looks like you got a nice goose egg there."

"You don't say," Eliot muttered.

Nate chuckled, "Go on then, back to the locker room. Doc's waiting for you there to check you over."

Eliot groaned, "You were serious about that?"

"You bet I was. Someone's gotta be the responsible parent in this bunch. Now go on, shoo! The gang and I'll clean up out here."

-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-


	7. Chapter 7

**Predator and Prey**

**Chapter 7**

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"Glad to see you walking back here on your own two feet. I had my doubts going into the match," the doctor spoke skeptically.

Eliot threw him a cocky smirk. This man, Jon, was such a far cry from his cousin. Mark was a fighter like Eliot. He understood the need to prove himself, the need to test himself against other men in the ring. Mark also understood the sacrifice fighters would make to get to that point at the end. The point where they stood over their opponent and knew once again that they had reaffirmed their rank and respect amongst those of the fighting creed.

Jon, on the other hand, was a healer. He cleaned up after they crawled out of the ring with split lips and swollen eyes and bruises dotting their flesh. And for the life of the man, it was clear he didn't quite understand the madness that drove them to willingly climb back between the ropes the moment they were able to test themselves against an opponent anew.

"I won, if you're wondering," Eliot said nonchalantly as he dropped down onto the locker room bench with a wince.

"I assumed that was the case. Figured I'd be dragging your unconscious form out of the ring myself if it had gone any other way. You don't strike me as the type to tap out."

Eliot shook his head, "I've never tapped out. Never will."

"Which was exactly my concern when I didn't want to let you fight tonight. You went in with what? Two cracked ribs, a barely-healed knock on the head, and enough bruising to boot," he complained as he expertly ran a hand along Eliot's ribs.

He paused in one region that had struck him as a bit off. He pressed a bit, eliciting a groan from Eliot as the man tried to wriggle away from the doctor's administrations.

"Like I said, your stubborn refusal to admit it's time to call it quits doesn't do your body any favors. Those two previously cracked ribs? Let's call them cleanly broken now. I'll bind them before I send you off. Anything else you want to tell me about now that I have you sitting where I can get a good look at you?"

Eliot shrugged, "Hit my head against the mat a few times. Nate told me to have you take another look at that before I left."

The doctor growled in disapproval and began running a hand along the back of Eliot's head. He immediately narrowed in on the problem area, pressing on it a bit more firmly than he probably had to. Eliot didn't complain though, he was probably causing the doc enough grief by showing up in here as beat up as he was.

John rocked back on his heels and reached for a flashlight from his pocket.

"Oh, come on doc! Again?"

The doctor chuckled and flipped the light on; steadying Eliot's head with one hand on his patient's chin as he pointed the flashlight into one eye then the other. "Yes again. You get knocked in the head again; we get to do the full diagnostic set for a concussion. Again."

Eliot squinted against the light as it burned his retinas.

"Alright, open those eyes of yours. Let me get a quick look at them."

Eliot groaned but complied. The light clicked off a moment later as promised. He blinked a few times to clear the spots from his vision. "Well? I take it I'll live?"

The doc rolled his eyes, "Fighters. As long as you survive all you want to know is when you can get back in the ring. But yes, beyond the two broken ribs and that concussion you've reopened the book on, you'll be ok."

"That's just what I like to hear, doc," Eliot added as he went to stand up.

A hand settled on his shoulder and pushed him back down. "Hold your horses there, Eliot."

Eliot sighed, "This where you tell me to go to the hospital to get checked out and then take the next week off?"

"Something like that. I'll give you a pass on the hospital; I don't think you'd follow my advice on that anyways. But it's two weeks off and you don't get left alone for the first three days at all."

Eliot groaned.

"I know, son. You fighters are all alike. You're heartily convinced you can take care of yourself all the time."

"I'd be fine," Eliot muttered quietly. "I know how to look after myself."

There was a soft laugh from behind him. Nate pushed off from where he'd been leaning up against a row of lockers by the entrance and sauntered back toward them. "That may be the case in the past, but you're part of a team now. And that means that this whole solo business doesn't exist anymore. We just need to get that message into that head of yours."

The doctor snorted, "That might take awhile. Thick skull might be an understatement. It's a miracle that his concussion isn't any worse than it is."

Nate frowned at this. "He got another one?"

John shrugged, "The last one probably wasn't completely healed going in. But suffice to say, he's aggravated it to say the least."

"So what are we looking at for treatment?"

"The norm, lots of sleep, Tylenol."

"No painkillers?" Eliot asked in a disappointed tone. God it was going to be a long few days.

The doctor shook his head, "No alcohol or aspirin either. Tylenol only." He turned his gaze back to Nate, "Keep him on bed rest for a few days and someone should stay with him around the clock for the next two or three days at least to keep an eye on him."

"Don't need a babysitter," Eliot muttered.

"Maybe not, but you do need someone to take notice if you start displaying symptoms of a brain bleed. Which means that yes, you get a buddy for the next few days."

Nate nodded, "Anything else we need to be worrying about?"

"He's doing alright now, but he'll probably be pretty dizzy in a few hours. If he pukes, you need to take him to the emergency room. Sleep is good for him, contrary to popular belief, but you should wake him up every few hours, ask some questions to make sure he knows what's going on."

"Ok, we can do that."

"Lots of hydrating. Even if he feels a little nauseous, he needs the hydration after a match like that. He might not feel like eating or drinking, just make sure he gets something in his system every so often."

"Got it," Nate responded. "That it?"

The doc nodded, "That's pretty much everything I'd suggest. You can take a pass on the hospital for now, I think you and your team can handle it. But you should schedule a follow-up appointment with a licensed physician of some sort just to get him checked out one final time. I can give you the name of one of my colleagues who lives up near you."

"We'd appreciate that a lot," Nate responded.

He looked down at Eliot. The man's appearance had grown noticeably worse since he'd seen him leaving the ring a bit ago. Eliot was hunched over; hands on his knees and eyes stared pointedly at the ground. "You feeling ok, Eliot?"

"Doin' fine."

Nate met the doc's gaze. The man shook his head. Nate sighed. "I'm gonna have Hardison come back and help you out to the car. I'll get the name of the physician Jon's recommending for a check-up in a few days and meet you out there."

"Ok," Eliot responded with a weak nod.

Nate didn't like that his hitter had stopped protesting treatment, and he didn't like the one and two word responses at all.

Hardison entered from where he'd been waiting in the hallway in case he was needed. He helped Eliot to his feet. When the man started to teeter to the side a bit Hardison draped one of Eliot's arms around his neck and guided the man out the door and toward the car Sophie had pulled up to the curb in preparation.

Nate shook his head and turned back to Jon, "You sure he doesn't need to go to the hospital?"

The doctor shrugged, "I think the fuss he'd put up if you made him go would just make him worse. Yeah, he's a bit dizzy, a bit out of it. But that's normal for a fighter coming out of a fight that rough with injuries like his. If he gets worse, though, follow your gut. Take him to the emergency room if you think he needs it."

"Ok, will do. Now how 'bout the name of that doc you want to recommend?"

Jon scribbled a name and a number on a scrap of paper and deposited it in Nate's hand. "There you go."

Nate looked down at the messy scrawl. After deciding that he could decipher it, he nodded once more. "Thanks, doc. Just tell Mark what we owe you and he'll send us the bill."

Jon's expression cracked into a grin at that, "No need. It's the least I can do for what you did for Mark. This gym, it's really brought his spirits up."

"Guess this is goodbye then," Nate added.

"Guess so. Keep me updated though? Call if you need any advice on Eliot or if his condition changes."

With a slight tip of his head Nate left the locker room in search of his team and their injured hitter.

-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note** – I have been *floored* by the wonderful reviews that everyone has left me on this story. You guys exceeded my wildest expectations for this fic and I am humbled to have such dedicated readers. Normally I like to respond to reviews individually, I think you all deserve that on my part for all of the work you put in to make sure that I know you enjoyed the story. If I don't find the time in the next few days to do this, I apologize. I am currently on my way to my first science-fiction convention and I've been told to expect spotty (if any) internet while I'm down there for the next five days. Just know that I have immensely enjoyed hearing from you guys. It gives meaning to this thing we do.

And now, I do believe that I have rambled on quite enough, you came here to read fan-fiction, not listen to me go on and on :P

**Predator and Prey**

**Chapter 8**

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Twelve hours later found the members of Leverage, Inc. back at Hardison's place. Eliot had taken up residence on the larger of the two couches in Hardison's living room. Home theatre was more like it, Eliot had always figured. This place had a larger plasma screen and better surround sound system than some movie theatres hehad been to.

At the moment, it was Parker who was none-too-inconspicuously watching him. She flipped a page in the magazine she was pretending to read before glancing at him quickly. He raised an eyebrow at her and smirked. She'd made the same gesture every three to five minutes for the past half hour or so since she'd woke him up to play twenty questions. Although he couldn't complain that she'd asked the same boring questions as Sophie and Nate. They'd asked him what city they were in, how he'd gotten a concussion, what his name was, what their names were.

Parker, on the other hand, had been more creative to say the least. She'd asked him questions he didn't even know the answer to. Like how long her best time was for picking a lock. He smiled. She had panicked at first when he hadn't responded correctly and had Nate's phone number dialed before Eliot had calmed her down and explained that she was supposed to ask him questions he _would _know the answer to. It still hadn't been boring, though. She'd asked about all the heists they'd pulled then. From bank robberies to all of the crazy roles they'd each played along the journey to becoming a real team.

Across the room Parker put her magazine down on the table, "You hungry? Cause I'm hungry. And Nate said that the doctor said that you should eat and drink a lot. So maybe I should make you a snack."

"Slow down, Parker. I'm fine. But if it'll ease your worry, go ahead, make us somethin' to eat."

She nodded and got up quickly, crossing the living room and disappearing down the hallway toward the kitchen. He didn't hear much from her for the next ten minutes or so beyond some humming as she went about making whatever passed for a snack in her opinion. Then there came the sound of metal hitting the ground.

"Parker? You ok out there?"

He waited a moment for a response. When none came he sighed. He eased himself into a sitting position and pushed himself into a standing position. The floor seemed to buck sideways as a dizzy spell hit him. He kept a white-knuckled grip on the arm of a nearby chair until the uncomfortable sensation passed and he was confident enough to let go.

As he moved he kept one hand on anything he could use to steady himself. A lamp, another chair. The cabinet along the wall and then the wall itself as he moved into the hallway.

There was muttered whispering coming from the kitchen and he called out to her again, "Parker, you in there? I heard a crash."

The muttering stopped and Parker appeared in the hallway with her back turned to him. She turned around at the sound and almost dropped the tray she was carrying.

"Eliot! You're not supposed to be up. Nate and the doctor said that you were supposed to stay glued to the couch. Although why anyone would want to glue you to the couch is strange to me." She set her tray down on the ground and hustled up to him.

"You should go back to the couch. I'll bring the food."

He put his hands up in mock defense, "Ok, ok. I'm goin' back to being a couch potato."

She didn't insist on physically helping him back like he knew Hardison or Nate or Sophie would. Parker didn't like being touched much herself, or touching any of them, he remembered. She respected his space but stayed just close enough to be there for him to grab if he was hit by another dizzy spell.

He shuffled back to the couch and sunk back down into the plush leather.

Parker nodded in approval. "Now stay there. I'm going to get our snack."

He waved her off on her way and she withdrew from the room, this time throwing one more nervous glance at him before disappearing from view again.

He heard the sound of Parker picking the tray off the floor and a few seconds later she was dropping the tray on the table. It was balanced a bit haphazardly on the edge and Eliot reached out to push it further onto the table so it didn't topple off. He looked it over. It was a rather lopsided cake with white frosting on the top that read 'Feel better soon!' in Parker's distinct hand. She always skewed her letters a bit to the right; he'd always thought it was cute.

"Thanks, Parker," he said sincerely. He knew that Parker wasn't the type of woman who liked working in the kitchen. She'd asked him about it one time while watching him cook some Thai food for a team dinner to celebrate a successful con. She asked him why he liked working over a stove when he could be out breaking into vaults or diving off buildings. You know, she said, the fun stuff.

"When'd you put this all together?" he asked.

"While you were sleeping. I woke you up after I stuck it in the oven."

"What flavor is it?"

"Peanut butter and jelly," she responded proudly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Never had a cake that flavor before."

She shrugged. "I found a bunch of recipes online but they were all boring flavors: chocolate and vanilla or strawberry. I figured I might as well make it a bit more exciting. And you did tell me that half of being a good cook was being willing to experiment."

He chuckled. "I did say that, didn't I? Alright then, let's try this concoction of yours. Got some cutlery and a pair of plates?"

"Yep," she responded gleefully as she grabbed them off the tray and laid them out on the coffee table. "I'm cutting the cake though. I'm not sure you should be handling knives with a concussion. I somehow don't think Nate would approve."

He shrugged and leaned back as she cut the cake into eight slices and dished them out a plate.

As she did so, Eliot thought back through the past few days. He'd gone from a fight in Nebraska, to this very couch, back to Nebraska, and then back to the couch. In that time he'd been prey and predator. He'd beaten up a few people, been beaten up a bit, and everything had come full circle back to his team's headquarters. His home, he thought. And not just a team, his family.

He thought of the efforts his family had made to fix what had been bothering him. When he'd been off, they hadn't treated him like prey. He'd always seen things in black and white. There were the people upon whom the criminals preyed, and the people who could stand their ground and beat those individuals back into the dark corners they had emerged from.

Parker handed him a plate of her cake. He smirked as he saw the inside. The white cake was marbled with streaks of purple from the jelly and strips of golden brown from the peanut butter.

With a family, he didn't have to be on edge all the time, worrying about a shady individual crawling out of the shadows and taking advantage or attacking them. He thought back to Hardison's guiding hand on his back as they went to the car after the fight. He thought of the way Sophie had stayed with him through the night despite the weariness that showed on her face. He thought of Nate having stopped by his place to pick up some more comfortable clothes for him. And as he put a bite of Parker's cake in his mouth, he realized something. There were seals and sharks in the world. But there were also close-knit families that fought together against all of the evil in the world. His family and him, they did that every day. And maybe that made the world a little less scary of a place.

"How's the cake?" Parker asked with a tinge of nervousness creeping into her face. It was the first time she'd cooked anything for another person. And they were always telling her that she had odd tastes.

Eliot threw Parker his widest smile, "Delicious."

-THE END-

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